


to remember

by r0uen



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, M/M, Memories, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25447252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r0uen/pseuds/r0uen
Summary: Shuichi thought that escaping the killing game would mean that his anguish would be over.But Tsumugi haunts him from beyond the grave.
Relationships: Amami Rantaro & Saihara Shuichi, Amami Rantaro/Saihara Shuichi, Harukawa Maki & Saihara Shuichi, Oma Kokichi & Saihara Shuichi
Kudos: 54





	to remember

**Author's Note:**

> more angsty amasai hell yeah
> 
> cw for self harm/self injury, descriptions of death and violence, panic attacks, mental health issues. it's pretty angsty i'm just warning you

Shuichi isn't sure what happened, but it was like being hit by a truck. 

It was just him and Maki and Himiko. They were finally escaping this damn nightmare, slowly leaving the school grounds. He saw the dents left in the grass by their cage. 

They had all paused at the edge, as if scared to go on. 

And then he took the first step. 

The memories came all at once, and he had stumbled forward and fell. But he didn't feel it. He felt numb and yet horribly exposed. The names and faces blurred, ugly brown blurs in his head, voices haunting him, words from the people that should be alive, that would be alive if he wasn't such a fuckup. 

He distantly registers someone calling his name, feeling his hands on the cold dirt, but he's still caught in his head. He can taste black coffee and a shared strawberry milkshake and he smells this floral cologne, and his brain tells him that was what home had smelled like once. And he can feel soft hair beneath his fingers and a calloused hand gripping his and silk satin bedsheets. He can hear his name, said in a strangers voice (not a stranger, his brain whispers, the love of your life) and baritone laughter mixing with his own and he sees shade of green fly by, with deep blues and shiny silvers and a touch of pastel pink. 

Shuichi wants to say here, with this not-stranger-that-feels-like-a-stranger, where he's warm and safe and alive (maybe this is what it's like to be loved), wants to stay in the home his memories had made for him. But there's a dark undertone beneath it all, and it feels like death and the deepest shades of purple. 

It's like he's being pulled in, until the warm laughter is replaced by a sickeningly familiar giggle. He sees maroon, dark reds changing to ominous purple and his head is spinning. It's like he's still there, like he's standing in front of Shuichi, teasing him and degrading him and treating him like fucking garbage. Trying to play him like a fiddle and then breaking the stringles when he doesn't succeed. 

When he had died, there had been this weird feeling of relief, like this weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He should've put the pieces together, should've recognized that his hatred towards him wasn't the type that could be developed quickly. 

He should've realized he had met Kokichi before. 

The memories are fast and he tries to chase after them, only catching snippets of lies and manipulation and worn down tear tracks and it hurts. It hurts so goddamn much he can't stand it. 

His heart aches- with what, he wonders, maybe agony or guilt or regret or just because of the past. Or maybe he just has heartburn. 

It feels like his world is fucking crashing down, falling apart, and he searches desperately, wishing for that rough hand to fall into his again. 

And slowly, like a needle slowly aligning with the groove of a record, that beautiful green came back into focus. 

Unlike with Kokichi, his mind isn't scrambling to put a name to a face to a memory to a death. He's just existing in this (so far from empty) void, and it seems like a hand is running through his hair. 

"Y'know I love you, right?" his lover murmurs. Shuichi doesn't know his face, but he knows that he loves him, and that's enough. 

"I know," he murmurs, and gentle fingers stroke his cheekbone. 

"No matter what. I wish I didn't have to do this damned killing game again, but let's hope I'll survive again, with you by my side." 

The words are ominous, and Shuichi ignores what they imply, ignores how he knows that the person who said them is now dead. He just leans into the touch, humming softly as lips quickly press against his. It's not fireworks, it's not explosions behind his head- it's better. It's the taste of home and the feeling of a warm fire on a cold night and the sound of birds in the early morning. 

But it's like someone's turning a dial inside of his head, and the person holding him begins to fade. 

He stands, desperately. He doesn't want him to fade away again, doesn't want to watch him die and stand by helplessly as the love of his life looses the shine in his eyes, doesn't want to leave the man he loves. He needs to save him, he needs to save him, needs to keep him here and hold him close, needs to laugh with him and cry with him and tell him he loves him because Rantaro died without knowing how Shuichi felt, how Shuichi feels. 

He keeps running towards the fading figure, desperate, but it's like trying to trap a cloud in a jar, trying to keep water from spilling out of empty hands. 

But he needs Rantaro, and a hoarse cry escapes his lips as he falls to his knees to end the futile chase. His legs are too heavy and he can't move but-

"Rantaro!" 

The yell seems to echo back to him and coils up in his ears. He can see green hair in the distance, a slightly tan face and a sad smile. 

"Don't leave me!" He pulls himself forward and realizes that this is true desperation. This is true pain, true loss, true suffering, true anguish, true anger. 

This is true despair. 

His hands claw at the ground as he tries to keep going, begging his body to move, to do anything but stare, desperate, at the boy fading into the fog. 

"Please! I need you- Rantaro, fuck, I can't lose you again!" 

There's blood under his nails but he can't bring himself to care. He forces his feet to move, to shallowly scrape against the ground, but the world won't let him get any closer. 

Rantaro's almost gone. But, god he needs him. 

"Please," he whimpers. And Rantaro turns, and he hears (of course he heard) and his lips curl into a broken sad smile. 

"I love you, Shuichi." 

The words just barely curl into his ears, and before he can process them, Rantaro is gone. 

It's like his heart has been ripped out. 

Its likes he's been split into. 

Is this what despair feels like? 

He screams again, and there's bile in his throat as he curls up on himself. And he's trying to stand, desperately, and he feels like he's the last man on earth. 

His breath comes in shallow pants and it feels like Tsumugi is pounding on his head, because she's making him despair beyond the grave more than she ever could in person. 

And the sadness, the loss- it's almost overwhelming and he doesn't know how he missed it. He should've known, should've realized his pull to Rantaro was unnatural. Should've realized they had met before. That they had loved each other before, before he had been murdered. 

Rantaro had finally been given the right to live after his first game, but then it was once again ripped away from him. 

God, he wishes it had been him instead. He would go through killing game after killing game if it meant Rantaro could survive, if it meant Rantaro could live like he deserved. 

He thought luck had been shining down on him when he got out alive, but it turns out it was just a cruel trick. Luck hates him most of all. 

He looks down at his hands (they're shaking badly), and his sadness has been swallowed up by desperation. He wants to see Rantaro, needs to see him and talk to him and hold him and kiss him breathless, needs to see him walking among the stars, needs to make himself stop feeling. 

No, he needs to feel something other than this pain. 

He raises a hand to his wrists, fingers tracing healed scars, and scratches hard with grimey nails, watches the dirt smear as the pain grows. He knows from experience that enough scatching will open up the cuts again, and wouldn't that be great? To see his own blood? He wants to see it, wants to crack himself open and break his bones and out in the sun. 

Maybe that's the only way he'll be happy. 

He keeps scratching, erratically, since it's the only thing keeping him here right now, it's the only thing grounding him in this world made of monochrome. It hurts so good, and he knows that after long enough the pain will just melt into pleasure. Pleasure he doesn't deserve. 

Then soft hands envelop his wrists. The grip is hard and stern, and Shuichi can't help the whimper that escapes his mouth. 

"Rantaro?" he whispers, knowing that it isn't him but, praying, hoping that it is anyway. 

He tilts his head up, opens his eyes (when did he even close them?) and is met with wide red ones staring back. 

He knows the name of the face observing him is Maki, but he can't remember anything else. Except that he trusts her. 

"Shuichi?" Her voice is distant, and sounds almost scared. It's a tone that sounds foreign coming from Maki's mouth. 

"Maki," he whispers, because it's all he can do. His fingers sting and his wrists feel like someone rubbed them with sandpaper. But the pain is welcome- it grounds him, helps him stare at Maki as she stares back. 

Maki squeezes his wrists, and that simple motion lets everything flood back. 

The killing game. 

The deaths. 

The bodies on the floor. 

That stupid fucking bear. 

And, most importantly, Rantaro. 

"Shuichi, are you alright?" She releases his wrists and grabs her shoulders. It's very out of character for her, but that's to be expected based on his behavior right now. 

A sob rips its way out of a worn throat, desperate and needy, and he cracks and breaks and falls apart in Maki's arms. 

She holds him gently, like she's scared holding him too tight will cause more cracks (he's already broken beyond repair) and rubs soothing circles into his back. 

"It's okay, you're alright, I'm here," she murmurs. 

He can't help but wish that he was resting in Rantaro's arms instead. 


End file.
